Sweet Nothing
by Mlee.Write
Summary: A Jisbon Thanksgiving one-shot


Title: Sweet Nothing

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: K+

Spoilers: Set approximately season 4

Disclaimer: I'm not making any profit on this

Summary: A fluffy Jisbon fic for the holiday. It actually turned out a little bittersweet—sorry.

Author's Note: Please keep voting for the Mentalist on the People's Choice Awards. I'm hoping if they win we might get a season 7! Also, I really appreciate and love reviews. Love 'em like crazy. So click that little review button! Please? Pretty please?

Teresa Lisbon rubbed at the ache in her left shoulder and rolled her neck, trying to ease tight muscles. It had been a marathon week. A woman had been found strangled in the State House, and the pressure had been on to solve the case as quickly and quietly as possible.

Which of course meant that Jane had managed to reveal the killer in the most public and ostentatious way he possibly could

Which of course mean she'd be making her apologies to the AG and potentially the governor. Again.

And, because she clearly needed the additional stress, the murder had happened right before Thanksgiving. The AG had been clear that no one was going to take the holiday off until the case was solved.

Teresa knew when she accepted her job that there would be long days, weekends and holidays worked. She accepted that she'd live on coffee, very little sleep, and that she could kiss her social life goodbye. Still, she felt for her team. As their leader, she tried to cut them a break whenever possible, and holidays were a sacred time to just unwind and stop thinking about dead bodies for a while.

Rigsby had plans with his mother, like he did every year. Grace had a plane to catch to Iowa. She had no idea what Cho was doing, but she figured he needed the time off too. She and Jane were the only ones who could really afford to miss a holiday—her brothers were scattered across the country and were celebrating with their respective wives and girlfriends. Jane, she expected, would find a book or a puzzle to crawl into for a few days. But they'd both be alone.

So she'd pushed her team hard, and they'd managed to get the killer in cuffs with a scant twelve hours to spare. Grace had rushed to catch her flight. Rigsby had wished everyone a "happy turkey day" and left for the long drive to his mother's. Cho, in his very Cho-like fashion, had said goodbye and left without a hint to his plans.

She rubbed her temples. One day she was going to find out he spent his time off performing Les Miserables in a community theater or breeding guinea pigs for show.

As for her, she had a stack of paperwork to complete, apologies to write, and a giant thermal mug filled with Columbian extra-bold.

At least the office was quiet, she reflected. She had the place to herself for once—no phones ringing, no one shouting, no doors slamming shut or loud laughter.

It was peaceful for once. She needed that.

She closed her eyes to savor the silence, just for one minute. Just for one minute.

XXX

The spiral staircase to the attic creaked as Jane strolled down. He shrugged into his jacket, tugging at the cuffs to straighten it.

It was late and he was tired. His eyes burned from staring at the Red John files for the millionth time, as if somehow he'd find something he missed every time before. The office was silent as a tomb, even the most die hard LEOs having gone home for the holiday.

He had every intention of hiding in his motel room for the next four days. He'd stop at that all night diner he liked and get a big ham sandwich to go—his version of the middle finger to the holiday in question. Thanksgiving and Christmas were always particularly hard, seeing families celebrate, watching the city shut down so people could be with those that they loved.

He usually shut himself away like a hermit, found some task to engage his mind. Otherwise he stared at the TV, endless late night documentaries and talk shows, and drank himself to a stupor. Wild Turkey was a kind of turkey, he supposed.

As he strolled to the elevator, slowly working himself into a good melancholy, he saw the light coming from Lisbon's office. He sighed.

She should be at home, watching movies and eating heavy starches. Or with friends. Or with her brothers. Instead she was probably busy paying for his little stunt at the State House. Actually, it hadn't been a little stunt. It had been a pretty epic stunt, and he was proud of it.

Still…

He detoured to her office, pushing open the door and prepared to say something glib. He snapped his jaw shut when he saw her slouched over her desk, sound asleep, dark hair tangled around her shoulders.

That couldn't have been a comfortable way to sleep, which mean she was exhausted. He couldn't leave her there like that.

"Lisbon," he whispered, coming into the office. "Lisbon."

She didn't stir.

He patted her shoulder gently. "Lisbon."

She mumbled something but ignored him.

He poked her. Hard. "Lisbon!"

She sat up suddenly, eyes wide, knocking the keyboard off her desk. Faster than he could react, she grabbed the offending finger and twisted, hard.

"Ow!" he shouted, trying to pull away from her. "_Lisbon!"_

She let go. "Jane?" she half screeched. "What the hell?"

He cradled his hand to his chest, rubbing his index finger. "Jesus, woman! What was _that_?"

"You startled me!" she barked.

"You almost ripped my finger off," Jane replied, affecting a look of horror and pain.

"Well, you shouldn't poke people!" she snapped.

"You were sleeping at your desk. I was trying to wake you up," he said, exasperated.

She turned a little red. "Oh." She sniffed. "Well."

Jane held his hand out. "I think you broke it."

She rolled her eyes. "I did not. Besides, you shouldn't poke people. It isn't nice."

He stared at her incredulously. "Neither is ripping their appendages off. That was my favorite finger."

"Ugh, I don't even want to know," she replied. Self-consciously she started fixing her hair. "Besides, you didn't have three brothers. They used to dip my fingers in warm water when I was asleep to try and get me to wet my pants."

Jane's eyes narrowed. "Does that work?"

"Never you mind," she replied tartly. After a pause she asked. "Does it really hurt?"

"It's horrible," he said, "I think I need to go the hospital."

He held his hand out for her inspection, and she took it gently in hers, turning it over. "Looks fine to me."

"I should probably sue," he continued.

She rolled her eyes and let him go. "I suppose I should be getting out of here. Thank you for waking me."

"Yeah, well, I'm never making that mistake again," he muttered, making sure she could hear. Sliding his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels, he asked. "Big plans?"

"No, just a relaxing weekend," she replied breezily, and he could tell she was trying let on that she wasn't disappointed.

"Thanksgiving isn't supposed to be relaxing," he pointed out. "It's supposed to be full of stress, and drama, and in-laws."

"Well, I don't have any of those, so I'm just going to settle for sleeping in," she replied, retrieving her purse and shutting down her computer. "Have a good holiday, Jane. Thanks for waking me."

He thought about his lonely motel room and her lonely apartment, and the fact that they both really hated long weekends because it was just time wasted until Monday came around and work gave them something to _do_.

"Do you want to come over?" he said suddenly.

She raised an eyebrow. "To your motel room?"

"Well, I live there so it's a lot less sketchy than it sounds," he said dryly. "I'm not inviting you over for a drink and some casual sex."

He said it so he could watch the blush creep up her neck. He also allowed himself to think about drinking and casual sex with Lisbon for exactly twenty seconds before he shut that part of his brain down. It was a pretty nice twenty seconds. In his mental foray, she giggled a lot and had freckles everywhere.

"I…uh, I don't know if that's appropriate, Jane," she muttered, flustered. "You shouldn't have to spend time with your boss on Thanksgiving. You should have fun."

"But I'm not going to," he pointed out. "And neither are you. And you're my friend."

"And also your boss," she replied.

"Yeah…I've never put much credit in that whole office hierarchy thing," he drawled.

"I've noticed."

"Anyway," he said, feeling a little hurt and rebuffed, "it was just a thought. Have a good weekend, Lisbon."

He turned to leave her office and she said, "Wait."

He grinned.

"Why don't you come over," she replied. "I have an actual kitchen table. And then we're not eating eggs made on a hot plate."

"Are you offering to make me Thanksgiving dinner?" he asked, grinning cheekily.

"I'm offering to make you a frozen pizza," she replied. "I don't have a turkey lying around."

"Tell you what," Jane offered, "I'll go get us a bottle of wine and some breadsticks to go with that pizza, and I'll meet you there."

She shrugged into her jacket and followed him out the door. "Sounds great," she said. She held up a folder. "I just need to drop this in the mail shuttle. See you soon."

Jane reached over and adjusted her slipping purse, then strolled to the elevator with a smile.

XXX

Teresa stood in the parking garage, swearing up a blue streak. Her keys were missing. She'd checked her purse, her jacket, her office. She'd peered into her car to make sure she hadn't locked them in. No dice. She'd tried calling Jane several times, but he never answered his damn phone which was especially irritating because he was expecting her.

Finally, furious, she gave up and called a cab. She had to wait an hour for one to show up given that it was a holiday and plenty of people needed designated drivers. By the time she pulled up in front of her condo and saw Jane's stupid blue car there was she steaming mad.

She tipped the driver, muttered a crabby, "Happy Thanksgiving," and slammed the door.

She marched up to the Citroën, but Jane wasn't sitting inside.

Then she realized her lights were on.

She was going to kill him.

Slowly.

Cho would visit her in prison. He'd probably bring her cigarettes to trade too.

Her front door was unlocked—of course—and she pushed it open with a bang.

"Are you kidding me," she yelled into the house. "You stole my keys?"

"I borrowed them," Jane shouted from the dining nook. "They're on your coffee table."

She pulled off her jacket and dropped her purse to the floor, closing the door and locking it. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she demanded, marching into the house. "Why would you…"

She paused as she looked at her dining room table. Previous to tonight it had held only stacks of junk mail and take out bags. Now it was laden with a Thanksgiving feast. There was turkey, mashed potatoes, yams, green beans and cranberry relish.

The table was actually set too—with real linen she'd forgotten she'd owned. Jane was standing there in his vest and shirt sleeves, lighting tapered candles that she knew she didn't own.

"Oh," she said. Then, "But you didn't have time to cook at this."

"Nah," he shrugged. "The owner of Henri Bistro owed me a favor. It's catered."

"Oh," she said again.

He pulled out a chair. "Have a seat, Lisbon. The food will get cold."

She sat down and started a little when he put her napkin on her lap. Then she watched, mouth watering, as he began to serve the food.

"You didn't have to do this, Jane," she said quietly.

"I wanted to," he replied. "You deserve it. Besides, it's nothing."

It wasn't nothing. It was Thanksgiving dinner, with real turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a nice Thanksgiving dinner like this. It made her chest feel a little tight.

They could have talked about the memories he had of his family and the holidays, or the fact that her mom always made Thanksgiving special, but there was no point in making the day bittersweet, so they ate too much turkey and potatoes, drank a bottle of wine, and got pleasantly tipsy.

She was finishing her second serving, trying to figure out if she could surreptitiously undo the top button of her slacks, when Jane said, "It's late and I'm a little drunk. Would you mind if I slept on your couch?"

After that meal she probably would have let him take the bed. "Sure," she said, and stood, starting to collect dishes.

"I'll wash, you dry," he offered. "Also go ahead and unbutton your pants. I know you want to."

She glared at him and carried the leftovers into the kitchen. They put the remaining food in containers, his and hers, and as Jane filled the sink she turned on the radio, filling the room with the incessant cheerful beats of a top forty station.

"I really appreciate this, Jane," she said, crowding him a little at the sink.

He handed her a plate. "Meh. What are friends for?"

He was a little too close, his look a little too sweet. If it had been any other man she would have gotten up on her tiptoes and given him a peck on lips, but it was Jane so she said, "What do you think Cho is doing tonight?"

"Making dinner for his grandmother," Jane answered, without missing a beat.

"He told you?" she asked, incredulous, as she put the dishes away.

"I'm just guessing," he said. "I stole his phone once and flipped through it. The only personal number in there was 'Gram.'"

"Huh," she said.

"Everyone has family, Lisbon," Jane replied.

Then, quietly, they both realized that he didn't. Not anymore.

So she took his hand, and the bottle of wine into the living room and said, "Yes they do. Biological or acquired." She pulled him down on the couch next to her and flipped on the TV, settling in next to him.

The thing was, even when she was most irritated with him, she'd always been comfortable with Jane, always felt a certain affection for him. And what he did tonight, bringing her a holiday meal, that was more than just food. He was making her house a home, and that was love, in its own way.

She flipped through channels until she found a late night talk show that was a repeat, and not even a little interesting. Still, it was better than infomericals or stupid cop shows.

Just for a little while, just because they were drunk and it was a holiday and it didn't count, she let herself lean against him. Jane stiffened, imperceptibly, then let his arm drape around her shoulders. They sat like that, pressed side to side, his thigh hot against hers, his arm heavy on her shoulders. They sat through the talk show, the sports recap on after it, through the commercial for a magical hair product that made shampoo obsolete.

Eventually he put his stocking feet on her coffee table, and she tucked her legs under her, cuddling in even closer.

She let her head loll against his shoulder. She pretended not to notice when he kissed her hair.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Teresa," he said quietly.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Jane."

She should really have gotten up and gone to bed. But she leaned into his chest and closed her eyes, feeling his arm tighten around her and his breathing deepen. She'd stay here just for one minute. Just for one minute.


End file.
